


i'm here

by ophin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Suicide mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophin/pseuds/ophin
Summary: If Hank says yes, he’ll avoid sounding like an absolute idiot, checking to see if Connor was alive by poking him in the goddamn face, though he might sound like a creeper. If he tells the truth, well, try explaining years’ worth of prodding and poking at his own anxieties.Either response is going to make him sound like a dick.





	i'm here

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for anxiety, suicide mentions, depression and anxiety attacks. 
> 
> sadly no content where i take on david cage in a fight. i would win

Anxiety and depression often go hand in hand. At least, that was what the doctor had told him in his late twenties. Hank at that moment in time wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch the doctor in the dick or himself in the goddamn face.

If he’s not feeling like a sack of newly steaming shit, ready to fucking die; he’s on edge, sometimes about nothing really, sometimes that someone he cares about is going to die if he’s not there. Though with most people they tend to feel to some degree both, Hank seems to swing from one abject side to the other. A metaphor for his piss-poor fucking life.

Around the time Cole was born it was particularly bad. He’d soothed himself with the thought that any parent would feel like this, especially with their firstborn, or with any child. Any moment of peace he had, where he could sit down at last, he was interrupted by the thought of Cole rolling over and not being able to breathe. If he couldn’t hear anything from the audio monitor, or be convinced that the breathing he was hearing was just his own ringing in his ears, he’d roll out of bed, to his then wife’s grumbling, to slip into Cole’s room and check.

Even when he was certain, sometimes Hank would just stand beside Cole, close his eyes, and listen to him breathe quietly to calm himself.    

He knows he’s only prodding the wound by checking, what can he say, he’s self-destructive by nature.

Sumo’s a reassuring presence to have. At night, he can hear him snore heartily through his door, and even snorts when he can hear Sumo chasing cats or whatever in his sleep and gently barking and whining. Sumo being on his bed and Hank resting his hand on his back, and feeling the reassuring rise and fall of Sumo's breathing, sometimes led Hank to his most restful bouts of sleep. 

Connor’s the absolute worst. He knows it’s not his fault, though sometimes he sits so still for so long without even a blink or fiddling with that damn coin of his, Hank thinks he’s snapped a wire in that goofy head of his and Hank will have to try fix it, and then break Connor permanently. His LED helps, softly glowing even if Connor is hyper focused on something and hasn’t moved in god knows how long.      

But, even then, he can’t be certain.

So here he is, standing in front of Connor, probably in stasis on his sofa, not sure whether or not to gently shake his shoulder or prod him in the face. It doesn’t exactly make sense, though anxiety making his heart pound a mile a minute doesn’t make a whole lot of fucking sense either.

To fuck with it, he’s poking Connor in the goddamn face.

Connor almost jumps out of his skin, Hank flinching back. Connor’s eyes are snapped open, and his LED whirs a stark red against his temple, diffusing the darkened living room in a harsh glow.

“Hank?”

“-Christ, are you ticklish?”

“No,” Connor says, near defensively, “Is that what you were testing?”

If Hank says yes, he’ll avoid sounding like an absolute idiot, checking to see if Connor was alive by poking him in the goddamn face, though he might sound like a creeper. If he tells the truth, well, try explaining years’ worth of prodding and poking at his own anxieties.

Either response is going to make him sound like a dick.  

Avoiding the question is always the answer.

“Kamski’s a kinky fucker, but, androids, are they all programmed ticklish? Or is it just the prototypes? Don’t have a gun? Just tickle someone to death, jeez.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Lieutenant.”

 _Ouch_.

“No,” Hank answers.  
Connor stares at him, unblinking.

“Don’t you dare-”

“I already did,” Connor’s eyebrows furrow, “I think you may be experiencing a panic attack.”

“No shit.”

If Hank was having a panic attack for the first time, he might mistake his heart palpitations for an oncoming heart attack. As it is, the fact it feels like he’s just ran a marathon is just more than a little bit uncomfortable.

Hank doesn’t want to look at Connor. Sure, he’s probably seen Hank at his outright worst, perhaps seen more to him than Jeff and his ex-wife put together, and he’s surprised, really, most days to find Connor still around the house. Still though, allowing someone to look in on your depression than your anxiety, feels to Hank like two completely different things. If he’s feeling like a black hole, he doesn’t give a shit about what people think of him. It’s just, right now, Hank doesn’t want to see a look of pity on anyone’s face, especially Connor’s.

“I hear breathing helps.”  
“You hear?”

“I looked it up,” Connor says, “just now.”  
“Right,” Hank snorts, “Very helpful.”

He jolts slightly, at the sensation of Connor touching his hand. His hand is unnaturally soft and smooth, with a little more give than human skin – not exactly free of moles and the odd line or two, though rid of callouses and flaky bits of skin. It’s still soothing, though, to have his thumb run slowly across his palm, repeatedly.

Hank’s breath catches in his throat, the expression now gracing Connor’s face, is soft, open, devoid of pity. 

His thumb still rhythmically paces over his palm, in a near timed cadence- oh. 

“I see what you’re doing, little shit.”  
“In some cases of anxiety, hyper focusing on your breathing can have the opposite effect, leading to hyper-ventilating, I thought it better for you to focus on the rhythm to steady your-”    

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank grumbles, touched, “cm’ere.”

Hank fully intends to pull Connor in for a hug, and huffs in surprise as Connor pulls him down to sit instead; letting go of his hand to wrap him in arms

Connor’s thirium pump seems to beat at an even slower rate than a human’s, which makes the artificial sound of Connor’s breathing a little jarring - going at different rhythms to one another. But soon, Hank has found himself distracted, by the equally soft feel of Connor's jumper to Connor's cheek, Connor's hands rubbing circles at his back, how Hank can feel the hard curve of Connor's shoulder blades. 

Hank pulls away, albeit reluctantly, though anything longer than what the hug had already lasted for, might be a little awkward for Connor, in Hank's opinion. Lightly, though, he holds onto Connor's shoulders as he does so. 

_Goddamn._

He blushes blue, huh?

**Author's Note:**

> henlo yes i haven't written fanfiction in 2 years christ. Conk brought me back though. Honk. Honkor. Hankor. Hanky Canky.  
> also this hasn't been beta-ed so this may be crawling in silly mistakes, feel free to let me know :^)


End file.
